


Venus in Furs

by SapphyWatchesYouSleep (Sapphy)



Category: Constantine (Comic), Constantine (TV), Hellblazer, Hellblazer & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Alternate Universe - Punk, Alternate Universe - Rock Band, Anal Fingering, Blow Jobs, Dimension Travel, First Time, M/M, Magic, Mild Kink, Mildly Dubious Consent, Mucous Membrane, Musicians, Oral Sex, Past Abuse, Punk Rock, Self-cest, Spit As Lube
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-11
Updated: 2015-04-11
Packaged: 2018-03-22 10:48:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3725938
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sapphy/pseuds/SapphyWatchesYouSleep
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The man grins. “Let’s see, I’m you but older, and you’re me in your prime wearing nothing but a pair of leather trousers. What do you think I want?”</p><p>“You travelled through dimensions to fuck me? Really?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Venus in Furs

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kitty September (KittyAug)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/KittyAug/gifts).
  * Translation into Русский available: [Венера в мехах](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5592136) by [Tykki](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tykki/pseuds/Tykki)



> Incase anyone's not clear, the characters involved are mostly-tv Constantine (with a fair dose of Hellblazer thrown in) and mostly-DC-Earth-2 Constantine, who has no magic and two loving parents.
> 
> Couple of extra warnings: there's very brief mention of John killing an animal in the past. It's a nod to the comics, and it's not in the least graphic, but I know that squicks some people. There's also discussion of John's childhood and general shitty life choices. There's also some very brief homophobia/transphobia. It's from a minor character, and they are called on it.  
> The dubcon warning is for a moment when a character is unsure about something that their sexual partner knows for a (time/dimension travel related) fact that they will like and so goes ahead anyway. No one is unhappy or traumatised by it.
> 
> Do not take this as in any way indicative of the size of transit vans. Most of this would be impossible in an actual transit, they're not spacious.
> 
> Beano and Les are cannonically the drummer and bassist of Mucous Membrane, but they rarely appear in any material. The Venus of the Hardsell video includes a female keyboard player, but she's never mentioned anywhere else, or named, so I left her out.
> 
> Venus in Furs is obviously by Velvet Underground, and I will never now be unconvinced that that's the song John lost his virginity too, or at least what he tells people the song was.
> 
> All blame for this should be divided equally between the writers of Constantine issues 20-23, which involve dimension travel and John making out with himself, and KittyAug, who prompted me to write this. I hope you like it, darling!

Tonight had been great, maybe their best gig ever, the crowd so into it that even Gaz’s nerves had melted away in the heat of the lights.

There was a certain high that came with a successful show which was better than any drugs John had ever tried (and he’d tried most things). The roar of the crowd, being the focus of so much attention, it left John buzzing, feeling almost like he was flying. The only thing that came close to feeling as good was a good fuck. (There was this… this place, in his head, that John went sometimes during sex. It wasn’t easy to get there, he’d only managed it three times, but once he was there he felt like he was flying. This felt like that.)  
Laughing with the sheer joy of it, he grabbed the nearest band member (turned out to be Beano) and planted a big smacking kiss on the centre of his forehead. Beano just laughed and gave him a small shove, used to John’s ridiculousness.

“Christ mate, we weren’t that good,” Gaz said, but John could tell he didn’t really mean it, so he kissed him as well. And then it seemed rude not to kiss Les too, so he tried it, but Les ducked out of reach, laughing at him.

“Fuck of ya great ponce,” Les said, but he was grinning so it was probably meant nicely.

“Fuck off yersel’, straight boy,” John replied, kicking absently at an empty beer can that someone had abandoned in the middle of the car park. It skittered away, bouncing slightly on the gravel.

Chas was waiting for them, leaning up against the side of the transit. “You all done?”

“Just gotta get the kit,” Beano confirmed.

“And get paid,” Gaz put him. He was mellow now, but John knew he was already jonesing for his next hit.

“Me n Beano’ll get the kit,” Chas decided, in that practical sober way of his. “Les, you go and see about payment, I don’t trust these two not to nick it.”

Normally John would at least pretend to be offended at that, but he’s still too high from adrenaline, so he just grins amiably. Something about his expression makes Chas smile, fond and long suffering. “Idiot.”

“That’s me,” John agrees. “What’re me n Gaz s’posed to do, sit in the van and knit?”

“Not likely,” Gaz says with a sneer. “I’m going with Les, then I’m gonna find some gear. You in?”

John shakes his head. “I’m gonna sit in the van for a bit,” he decides. “Enjoy the buzz.”

Gaz laughs. “Fucking attention whore.”

John shrugs. He’s hardly going to deny it.

“Well if you have a wank, try and wipe it up with your own clothes this time,” Les says. “I’m sick of finding your jizz on my shit.”

“How’dya know it’s mine?” John asked. “Could be Chas’s, he’s a randy sod. Or Beano. S’not like he’s getting any skirt.”

“Fuck of mate,” Beano says cheerfully. “I do better’n you.”

That’s a lie so blatant John doesn’t even bother to acknowledge it. “Fuck off the lot of ya. And I’ll wipe my jizz wherever I fucking like.”

The others leave in a cloud of good natured jeers and catcalls, and John relaxes a little.

Chas had chucked him the keys before he left, so John unlocks the back and climbs in, lifting the guitar cases in after him. The van’s empty now, but he knows if he wants to remain undisturbed he needs to leave enough space for the drums, so he makes himself comfortable in the space right behind the bench seat.

The whole back of the van is carpeted, because the uncle of Beano’s Chas’d bought it off is a disgusting old pervert, and John settles back happily onto the shag (hah) pile, inhaling the smell of stale sex and sweat and spilled beer and dope and cheap cigarettes.

He drags a rumpled pack of his own out of the back pocket of his jeans and puts one in his mouth. Then he drags himself up to lean over the back of the seat so he can rummage in the glove compartment for a lighter.

“You know, I’ve never seen myself from this angle before,” an amused voice behind him says, and he realises he’d left the doors open. “It’s a good view.”

He turns round to find a tallish man wearing a trenchcoat over a shirt and tie standing in the doorway. The tie is loose and the shirt unbuttoned enough to allow the light pollution to throw his collar bones into sharp relief.

His face is shadowed, but John can make out a hint of stubble, tousled hair that’s blond or light brown and a nose that’s been broken one too many times.

“You want somethin’ mister?” he asks.

“Just thought I’d offer you a light,” the man says, reaching into the pocket of his coat and producing a silver Zippo. “Seemed the decent thing to do after the show you put on.”  


John relaxes a little. The man’s a fan. Not the usual kind, and it doesn’t stop him also being a murderer, but it at least goes some way to explaining his presence. And he does need a light.

He crawls back to the van door and crouches at the entrance, unlit fag dangling from the corner of his mouth.

Silently the man lights it for him, and John takes the first deep pull. “Ta.”

“Don’t mention it,” the man says, producing a packet of his own and lighting up. Silk Cut, John notices, his own preferred brand.

Up close there’s something disturbingly familiar about the man’s face. “D’I know you, mate?” he asks, staring. The eyes aren’t familiar, or the broken nose, but the cheekbones, and the mouth…

The man laughs. “You could say that Johnny lad, you could say that.”

John stiffens at the use of the childhood nickname. “Who the fuck are you?”

The man takes a slow drag on his cigarette, face angled up to the sky as though asking the stars for advice. Eventually he looks back at John, mind apparently made up. “I’m you, give or take about twenty years, some magic and a fuck load of trauma,” he says.

Christ the guy’s a fucking nutter. He thought you had to be actually famous to get crazy stalkers.

“Fuck off,” he says, annoyed, and turns to crawl back into the van. Turning his back on the guy might not be the smartest move, but it does send a clear signal that the conversation is over. “Thanks for the light, but you’re a bloody looney and I’d appreciate it if you buggered off, a’right?”

The man laughs softly. “This might not all be accurate, so bear with me. You had a twin brother, who died in the womb. In your head you call him Golden Boy because sometimes you’re fucking sure your parents wish he’d been the one to survive. When she was fourteen, your sister Cheryll got her first perm. It was hideous and it made her look like a sheep, but you told her it looked good. Your dad drinks stout, or Newky Brown when he can get it, and his mates from the pit all take the mick out of him for drinking Geordie beer. You failed the eleven plus on purpose because you didn’t want to be the only kid you knew going to a Grammar school. Your first crush was Susie Edmonds in the year above you at high school. You wrote her a poem, but never got up the guts to give it to her. Good call by the way, the poem was fucking awful. The first time you met Chas, you were going to try and fuck him but then he started talking about music and you ended up sitting up all night arguing about whether Blondie is better than the Buzzcocks. You want me to go on?”

“How the fuck d’you know all that?” John demands, trying to keep his hands from shaking. No one could have known all that, fucking no one. The only thing that hadn’t been true was Cheryll and the perm. Mum hadn’t let her. He can still remember the rows they had over it while him and dad sheltered in the living room with the radio turned up and pretend to be ignoring them.

“I told you, I’m you. Sort of. Look, just look at my fucking face. I’m you, it’s not exactly hard to spot.”

Chas and Beano would be coming out soon, he reminded himself. Not much this crazy bastard could do to him before then, since he didn’t seem like he was about to pull a weapon.

“Oh just come here,” the stranger says, sounding irritated. “I’m not gonna knife you and I’m certainly not gonna rape you, okay?”

It’s a little weird having his fears voiced allowed like that, but he’s always had more bravado than sense, so he shuffles forward a little to study the man’s face.

The structure is remarkably like his own, he has to admit, and so is the mouth. That’s what he’d noticed earlier, that uncanny resemblance. They smoke the same way too, the same slightly camp flick of the wrist the get rid of excess ash.

But the eyes are different. Same colour, that unremarkable grey blue that half the population of the country has, but these are shuttered somehow. Like the eyes of the old boy with only one arm who used to sit silently in the corner of his dad’s boozer. He’d been in the war, people said, and you could see it in his eyes. This man has that same look.

“You look a bit like me,” John concedes. “Fair bit older though.”

The man laughs. “Twenty years to the day,” he says. “It’s the kind of shit that happens when you dimension jump. Gave me quite a shock, I can tell you, picking up a paper and finding out I’d landed in 79.”

“Right, so you’ve come here from a parallel dimension, like something of fucking Star Trek?” John demands, disbelief colouring his words. “You ‘spect me to fuckin’ believe that?”

The man shrugs. “That’s up to you. I can’t exactly prove it beyond what I already told you. My universe isn’t the same as yours, so I don’t have the same memories. I was hoping I’d find someone a little older, who might know something about magic. Seeing myself this young is creepy. I don’t remember being that much of a twink.”

“Twink?” The way the man said it made it clear it was an insult.

“Oh, don’t worry, the term won’t catch on in this country for another decade.”

John considered punching him, just on principle, and dismissed it. He could handle himself in a fight, but he’d rather not deal with the judgemental looks Chas will throw him if he started punching complete strangers in car parks, however loony they are. “Okay, say I believe you. Say you really are me from a parallel universe. What d’you even want?”

The man grins. “Let’s see, I’m you but older and a lot more cynical, and you’re me but in your prime (and trust me on that, it’s downhill all the way from here) and wearing nothing but a pair of leather trousers. What do you think I want?”

That’s a no-brainer. “You travelled through dimensions to fuck me. Really? Was that the best pick up line you could think of?”

“I’m you love, don’t think I don’t know how easy you are. But if you need a little persuading…” he drops his fag, only half burned down, and takes a step forward. John squares his shoulders and doesn’t move, determined not to be intimidated. “I know every kink you have, and some you haven’t even discovered yet. I know all the spots on your body that you wish people would touch but they never do. I know every sick fantasy that’s ever floated its way through your disturbed little brain, and I’m up for all of them. Plus I suck cock like a fucking champion.”

John can’t help the snort of laughter at the matter of fact tone that last statement is delivered in. “Oh, not much of’n ego then?”

The man grins, and it’s his fucking smile, his smile on the face of this stranger, and it’s creepy as fuck. Does he look that much like a serial killer when he smiles? “Mate, I’m you. You know exactly how much of an ego I’ve got.”

Not much of one but a whole lot of bravado and boasting, John thinks, but he doesn’t say it out loud. Apparently the stranger can read his face though. “Alright, fair enough, I’ve probably got more of an ego than you. Christ I’d forgotten how bloody insecure I used to be.”

John bristles and the stranger laughs. “No need to get offended, we grow out of it. Give it about, oh, six years and a visit to hell itself and you’ll be the most arrogant bastard ever to walk the earth.” He considers that. “Or maybe not. You know any magic, kid?”

John stares at him. The man seems sane, or at least sane enough, but then he says mad bollocks like that. “Magic’s not real mate.”

The stranger grins. “Really? How’m I here then?”

John’s saved from having to try and think of a reply to that bit of circular logic by the arrival of Chas and Beano, lugging the black boxes containing Beano’s kit between them. John lets out a sigh of relief at the sight of them.

“Don’t just sit around looking dense,” Chas calls. “Give us a bloody hand you lazy bastard.”

John takes another drag on his fag and slips down to help. That puts him only inches from the stranger, who doesn’t move to make room. Up close he smells of stale fags and something herbal that John thinks might be incense. Figures the guy claiming to be his future would be a fucking hippy.

The stranger laughs softly. “I’d forgotten I used to do that with my hair. Well, could be worse I ‘spose. I had a mullet for a bit in the 80s. This is definitely better.”

“Fuck off,” John says. He has no idea what the crazy bastard is on about, but he’s pretty sure it’s insulting. “If you insist on hangin’ about, at least make yoursel’ useful, yeah?”

“Fair enough,” the stranger says with a shrug. He ambles over the Chas and Beano, who are watching them curiously. “Give us a box then Chazzy.”

“Do I know you?” Chas asks, even as he hands over the bass drum.

“You will,” the stranger says, and then corrects himself, “you might. In a few years. All depends on Newcastle. You boys ever played Newcastle?”

“Not yet,” Beano says, sounding suspicious. He doesn’t like people touching his kit, which is fucking laugh given the way he treats it. “What’s it to you?”

“Nothing and everything,” the man says enigmatically. John is really starting to hate him. “My advice would be avoid the place. It’s a shithole.”

Chas looks around him. “We’re in fucking Moss Side mate, I think we can handle Newcastle, thanks all the same.”

The stranger shrugs. “Suit yourself, just a bit of friendly advice. You want this in the van, yeah?”

He hefts the drum like it’s made of nothing, though he doesn’t look especially strong.

Chas nods. “Just shove it to the back.”

“But carefully,” Beano puts in. “You damage it you fucking pay for it.”

“What’d you take me for?” the stranger says, sounding offended. “I’ve been shifting instruments around since I was a kid, I know what I’m doing.”

“You a musician?” Chas asks.

The stranger laughs. “I used to think I was,” he says. “Bit of a one chord wonder. I was singer in a band for a bit, when I was younger.”

“Any good?”

“Complete fucking shite,” the stranger says cheerfully. “It was good fun while it lasted though, and it got me laid regularly, which was pretty much the point of it.”

“Man after me own heart,” Beano says with a laugh. “Maybe you can give Johnny a few tips. Man needs all the help he can get. You shoulda seen the dog he went home with last week.”

“Like you do any better,” John says. “Anyway that was a bloke.”

Beano stares. “Yer kiddin me. In a frock?”

“Shocking as this may be for you to hear Beano, some blokes do actually wear dresses.”

“So you’re fucking trannies now. That’s how low you’ve sunk?”

“None of that now,” the stranger says mildly before John can intervene. “I’ve only just met you, it’d be a shame if I had to punch you for being a homophobic arsehole.”

“He’s not homophobic,” Chas says, pushing one of the snares past John into the back of the van. “Just an idiot.”

“I remember,” the stranger says quietly. He staring at Chas like he’s just seen a ghost, or maybe an angel. Like Chas is the more beautiful thing he’s ever seen. Christ John hopes that’s not how he looks when he sees Chas. He looks like a lovesick fool.

They stow the rest of the kit in silence, John sitting with his feet dangling just above the tarmac and watching them.

“We’re going back in for a drink,” Chas says when they’re done. “You coming John?” It’s an out, an excuse to slip away, because Chas is fucking brilliant like that, but John just shakes his head. He’s pretty sure now that the man isn’t going to stab him, and he’s intrigued. He can always escape to the pub later.

“I’m gonna stop out here a bit longer,” John says, taking out another fag.

Chas shrugs. “Suit yourself.” He turns to the stranger. “Thanks for the help mate.” The two of them are close now, close enough that Chas must be able to see the man’s face clearly, and his eyes widen. “Hey, you don’t half look like John. You a relative?”

“Just one of them coincidences,” the stranger says. “’Less his dad spent a lot of time in London back in the day.”

Chas laughs, like he was clearly meant to, and him and Beano turn and head back inside.

“How can we be the same person then, if you’re from London?” John demands triumphantly.

“I’m not,” the stranger says, lighting another fag and then holding out the lighter to John. “Moved there was I was eighteen, same as you. Out of interest, what was Chas’s ma like in this universe?”

“Queenie?” John asks, surprised. “She was okay. Bit of a tartar. Had this horrible fucking parrot that used to swear at everyone who came near it. Me ‘n’ Chas poisoned it in the end. Queenie was fucking heartbroken.”

The stranger laughs. “I thought he looked happier than my Chas. Well well, a Queenie who wasn’t evil. And I suppose you’ve never killed anyone either.”

It’s a statement rather than a question, but John shakes his head all the same. “The fuck mate? Course I ‘aven’t. What kind of a question is that?!”

“A reasonable one, in the circumstances,” the stranger says, unmoved. “I was just trying to work out how different our lives have been. What song did you loose your virginity too?”

“Venus is Furs,” John says, because he’s proud of that. Not many people get a song they don’t have to embarrassed about.

The man nods approvingly. “Good to see you’ve still got excellent taste. I can’t offer a soundtrack, but I can promise to be better than Jenny Thomson. And I won’t cry if you say you don’t want to see me again after.”

John flushes. “How’d you know about that?” he demands. He never told anyone that, too ashamed of his bad behaviour.

“Told you, I’m you in twenty years, more or less. Now’re we gonna fuck or what?”

“If I’m you, why’d you want to fuck me?” John asks suspiciously.

The man laughs. “You’re telling me you wouldn’t fuck yourself given half the chance? The only reason you haven’t jumped me yet is that you still don’t believe me. I’m also doing it as part of a magical ritual, but to be honest that’s most just a bonus.”

“There you go with the magic again. You know it’s just tricks right?”

The man laughs, fag wobbling in the corner of his mouth. “Really?” He holds up a hand, makes a fist, and suddenly his hand is engulfed in flame so hot it’s almost white. John scrambles backwards to avoid being burned. He can feel the heat from where he is, though the stranger doesn’t seem to be in any pain. The fire stinks, rotten eggs and thick black coal smoke, but no hint of burning skin.

The man stretches his fingers, and the flame disappears as quickly as it had come, leaving spots dancing in front of John’s eyes and the stranger’s skin unmarked. “Genuine hellfire,” the man says. “Makes a good party trick. Also helpful when your lighter runs out.”

John gapes. “But your hand…”

“Oh it’s easy enough to not get burned when you’ve got the trick of it,” the stranger says with a shrug. “Now do you believe me?”

“Maybe about the magic. Maybe. Not about you being me.”

The man shrugs. “Fair enough. You don’t have to believe me to fuck me.” He makes a vague gesture with his fag. “Look, I’m guessing I’m not your usual type, since your childhood seems to have been pretty free of trauma, but I’m good looking enough, and no one else is out here offering, so how about it? At the least, you might learn something.”

John considers it. He still doesn’t believe the man is him, however similar they might look, but he’s attractive, and going inside and picking up a girl seems like a lot of work. He shrugs. “Why not.”

“Finally,” the stranger says, grinning. He drops his fag, grinding it into the dirt with the toe of his shoe, and steps in close to pull John into a kiss.

He tastes of fag ash and cheap whiskey, a combination John’s always liked, and he kisses like he was fucking made just for John, just the right amount aggressive, wet without being sloppy, teeth scraping along John’s bottom lip in a way that makes him groan.

“If that’s how I kiss,” John murmurs when he pulls away, “then no wonder the girls are falling over themselves to get at me.”

The stranger laughs. “You aint seen nothing yet lad.” He gives John a curious look. “Well, that answers that question. Apparently the daddy kink is all my own.”

John wrinkles his nose. “Daddy kink?” he asks, amused and horrified all at once.

“I had a very different childhood from you,” the man says with a shrug. “I spose you also don’t like burn play?”

“As in, letting people burn you for kicks?” John asks. “No, because I’m not a fucking lunatic.”

The stranger shrugs. “Believe me, it’s not the worst thing I’ve ever done in the name of orgasms. Now I’m gonna roll with a few assumptions. Just tell me if I do something you don’t like.”

He moves back in for another kiss, a little deeper and a lot more controlling than before, and John finds to his surprise he likes that just as much. He’s not normally down for anyone telling him what to do, but he can’t help whimpering when the stranger nips sharply at his lip as punishment for trying to take control.

The stranger’s mouth leaves his, kissing along his jaw and down to his throat. A quick flick of tongue is all the warning he gets before teeth are sinking into his neck, sharp and unrelenting and painful and so fucking good he can’t help grinding up against the man’s hip. Fuck, he didn’t know pain could feel like this, lighting up his nerves as good as any pleasure, making him pant and throw his head back, wordlessly asking for more.

The man pulls away, running a thumb over the bruised skin, making John shiver at the dull ache. “Good to know that’s inherent,” the stranger comments. “Always worried it had something to do with my childhood. Shall we relocate? I’d rather not suck your cock out here if it’s all the same. As you get older you learn to appreciate things like not having gravel imbedded in your knees.”

“You seem keen to get your mouth on me,” John comments, scrambling over the kit to the empty space behind the seats. “Thought we’re ‘sposed to be the same.” He doesn’t hate giving head, but it’s certainly not his favourite thing in bed. He’d always rather stick his cock in someone.

The stranger grins. “I’m guessing you never fucked Geordie Sid then.”

“The druggie with the tattoos, lived down the road?” John asks, wrinkling his nose. “I was never that fuckin’ desperate.” (Or that stupid. Sid used to drink with his dad, and the man gossiped like a washerwoman.)

“Only time he was ever nice to me in two years of fucking was when I sucked his cock,” the man says, letting John push him down onto his back on the filthy carpet. “I think he conditioned me.”

“Christ,” John mutters, unbuttoning the man’s shirt. “D’you have any healthy kinks?”

“Nope. Wait… oh no, that one’s thanks to Sargon. No, nothing good.” He grins, crooked and dark and everything and nothing like John’s own smile. “Where’s the fun in that?”

John gets the shirt unbuttoned, and the man obligingly lifts off from the ground long enough for John to slide it off him. Underneath he’s skinny but wiry, muscles visible in his stomach in a way John (who’s just plain skinny) is a little jealous of.

He’s also absolutely covered in scars.

John runs a hand down his chest, fascinated and appalled at the texture beneath his fingers. “People don’t like you much, do they?”

“They do try to kill me a lot,” the man agrees easily. “So far none of them have succeeded.”

“Well good f’you, I guess,” John says. He’s not looking at the random pattern of knife marks now, or the long ragged scar that nearly bisects the man’s chest that must have come from a car crash or something similar. His eyes have been caught by the collection of small round marks that litter the man’s shoulders and arms. “Are those…”

The man shrugs. “My childhood wasn’t as nice as yours,” is all he says. “Now are we going to get on with this, or do you want to just sit around admiring me all night?”

John blushes and bends down to catch the man’s lips in another kiss in an attempt to hide it.

With surprising strength, the man catches him round the waist and flips them over, grinning down at him from his perch astride John’s hips. John shivers at the display of dominance (shouldn’t be hot, really really shouldn’t be hot) and then bite his lip to keep from moaning when the other man grinds down, rubbing his arse along the length of John’s confined cock.

The man grins at him, equal parts mocking and smug. “Starting to get a little uncomfortable?” he asks with a grin. He runs a finger up John’s leg and sings under his breath, “shiny shiny, shiny boots of leather…”

John freezes, his whole body going still with shock. He could explain away the similar bone structure, and even the man’s knowledge of his childhood, but his voice, the lilting way he sings…

“You’re really me,” he whispers, staring.

The older John grins at him. “Finally noticed? Yeah kid, I’m really you. A different version of you, but still you.”

“And you really did come here from another dimension?”

“I really did.”

“And you really can do magic?”

“Yup. Now take these ridiculous trousers off.”

“What, you didn’t own a pair of these at my age?” John demands, unbuckling his belt and wriggling out of the constricting leather. He gets them down as far as his shins before he can’t reach anymore.

Older John turns round and removes his boots for him, sliding the trousers the rest of the way off when he’s done. “Yes, I had a pair. And they looked ridiculous on me as well. At least you’re not coupling them with a studded collar. That was not my best idea. I got hit on by people even I thought were creepy.”

John makes a mental note to get rid of the collar he’d bought last month and not been brave enough to wear yet.

“So I’m gonna grow up to be you?” John asks, intrigued. He’s not looking forward to getting those scars, but it’s nice to know he retains his good looks.

“I bloody hope not,” his counterpart says. “That’s a fate I wouldn’t wish on anyone. ‘Sides, most of my life from about age twenty revolves around magic, and you can’t even conjure a werelight, so you’re probably safe.”

“So you didn’t come to give me some warning about my future?”

“Who d’you think I am, bloody Sarah Conner? No, don’t worry, that reference won’t make sense for a couple of decades. What’d I warn you about? You don’t seem like the demon summoning type, and if you got your safe sex talk from Cheryll like I did then there’s no risk of you ever forgetting. Although, while I think of it, quit smoking.”

“Excuse me?”

“Lung cancer. When you’re in your 40s. The fatal kind, since you almost definitely can’t blackmail Jehovah into curing you. So maybe think about quitting, yeah?”

Christ. Anti-smoking posters and shit are one thing, but a future version of yourself telling you you’re definitely going to die is another thing entirely. Maybe he actually will try quitting. “I’ll think about it.”

“Good lad. Now you lie there and look pretty, and I’ll suck your brains out through your cock, yeah?”

Christ, he grows up cocky. “You can try.”

Still he lifts his hips obligingly to let his counterpart pull off his boxers. Underneath he’s embarrassingly hard considering all they’ve done so far is kiss a bit and talk. Other John doesn’t seem to mind though, wrapping a calloused hand around him and giving him a few quick firm strokes, grinning when the sudden pressure makes him jack-knife, thrusting his hips up into the other man’s hand.

“Easy there lad, we’ve not even started yet,” the smug bastard says, sounding pleased. He rearranges himself so that he’s resting on his elbows between John’s legs, John shifting to sit leaning against the side of the van to give him room.

He gasps at the sensation of a tongue running up the underneath of his cock, followed by a hand grasping the base to hold him still, firm and warm. His counterpart slides his hand up and down once in a quick, almost perfunctory gesture before he sucks the head into his mouth.

John can’t help the hitch of his hips at the sudden hot wet pressure. He’s had a lot of blowjobs in his life (although far less that he claims to have had) but they’ve all been hurried and rarely with someone who knows what they’re doing.

His older self definitely knows what he’s doing.

He doesn’t try and take too much, using his hand as a guide, but John doesn’t feel slighted because he’s moving his hand in sync with his head, keeping up that gorgeous pressure on his shaft while his tongue draws tight circles over the head, pushing into his slit and teasing the edge of his foreskin. He’s drooling just a little, the saliva adding a gorgeous sticky slickness to his hand and John actually shoves a fist into his mouth to keep from making too much noise. He’s never yet been arrested for public indecency, and he’d like to keep it that way.

It’s hard though. He’s naturally noisy, always has been, and the slick wet pressure and the occaisional deliberate scrape of teeth and the way his older self is fucking grinning around his cock, the stretched-wide corners of his mouth quirking up just enough to make him look smug, is all making it harder to keep the desperate little whines and moans inside.

He does whine, load and pathetic, when his other self pulls off, grinning at him in a way that would make John want to punch him if he wasn’t still jacking his cock, hard and fast and perfect.

“I’m impressed you’ve actually managed to keep your hands to yourself this long,” older John says with a crooked little smile, “but you don’t have to be a gentleman with me. Surely you’ve realised by now, hard and fast is kinda our thing. Also, do you want me to gag you? I’m pretty sure I could find something in here that would work.”

That’s shocking enough to almost be a mood killer. “What? No! Why would…”

His other self shrugs, his hand never faltering on John’s cock, making it hard to work up and real indignation. “You looked like maybe you wanted me to. It’s fine if that’s not your thing, I was just offering.”

John imagines the older man shoving one of Beano’s drumsticks into his mouth like a horse bit and ordering him to bite down, or bundling up his boxers and shoving them into his mouth, and he can’t hide the flush that travels down his chest, making his nipples harden. Christ he had no idea he was such a fucking pervert. “No ta. You’re a’right.”

“Suit yourself,” the other man says, and bends back to the task in hand.

He’s shifted the position of his hand slightly around John’s dick, so that the top two fingers slide into his mouth when he goes down. It’s a little odd, detracting slightly from the sensation of his mouth, but John distracts himself by tangling his fingers into dirty blond hair and pulling, just a little.

His hair is surprisingly soft. It’s been so long since he’s felt it without any product in it and he spends a moment just running his fingers through it, fascinated, before he clenches his hand into a fist and pulls.

His counterpart groans, loud and theatrical, and winks at him when he catches him watching, because he’s a bastard. John grins to himself and lets his head fall back against the side of the transit with a thunk, focussing all his attention on how the right amount of pressure applied to his handful of hair can make the other John suck harder or speed up his rhythm. It’s intoxicating, having that much control and yet no control at all at the same time, and it’s a feeling he thinks he could get used to fast.

He’s so caught up in the sensations it takes him a moment to notice that the other John is moving his hand, unwrapping his fingers and moving down to cup his balls. The base of his cock feels suddenly cold as the night air hits it, but his counterpart slides his mouth down a little further, until John can feel the back of his throat fluttering soft and wet against the head of his cock, and that’s so hot he has to close his eyes and dig his nails into the palm of his free hand to keep from thrusting up. He’s heard stories about girls vomiting when guys did that, and that’s definitely not how he wants this night to end.

The hand on his balls is gently, cupping and stroking, and it’s nice enough but it’s not something that’s ever really done it for him. And then two fingers are trailing down, pausing briefly to pressed hard just behind his balls at a spot that makes him gasp at the sudden unexpected sensation, and then further down, sliding between his arse cheeks to circle his hole.

“Mate, I don’t…” he begins, but has to stop when his counterpart pulls his mouth off his cock, and starts jacking him so fast he can’t catch his breath.

“You never fucked Sid, you said,” his other self says, sounding thoughtful. “Ever meet a bird by the name of Anne-Marie?”

“Sounds like a country singer,” he forces out, the words coming out breathier than he would have liked.

His other self laughs. “Yeah. But since you never met some of my best teachers, it falls to me to teach you a few things.” And then there’s a finger, in his arse.

He doesn’t know how it happened, but one moment the man is stroking teasingly at his rim, in a way that’s equal parts pleasurable and terrifying, and then there’s a long slim finger inside him, feeling huge and alien and indescribably weird.

He tries to wiggle away, but there’s no room, so his body reacts in the only way it can, clamping down painfully on the intruder.

But his other self just grins, left hand still moving fast and firm on his cock, and crooks the finger, and lights explode behind John’s eyes as his whole body seizes with the sudden unexpected pleasure.

“Fuck fuck fuck,” he chants, gasping for breath. “What…”

“John Constantine, meet your prostate,” his older self says, in the most self-satisfied voice John has ever heard. “You know, I thought it was going to be harder than that, finding it from this angle. Apparently I’m just that good.”

“Shut up,” John growls. “And do that again.”

“Oh, I can do better than that,” the other man says, and bends down to get his mouth back on John’s cock.

After that everything is just a blur of confused pleasure, pure sensation whiting out his thoughts as his other self fucks him with first one, then two spit slick fingers, his mouth hot and wet and perfect on John’s cock, and God, John can’t think, can barely breathe with it all. All he can do is grab hold of older John’s hair and try to hang on until it’s over.

His orgasm hits unexpectedly, everything he’s feeling too strange and intense to give him any kind of warning before he’s almost doubling over, his whole body clenching, almost ripping out a handful of the other man’s hair as he rides the waves of crippling pleasure.

Eventually it begins to pass, and the other John seems to know it, pulling off and gently sliding his fingers out of John’s arse, wiping them on the filthy carpet. John slumps back against the wall, boneless and spent and barely conscious. It’s not the strange floating place he sometimes goes after sex, but it’s still fucking fantastic, and he enjoys several minutes of afterglow before he’s interrupted by a loud cough.

“I know I said you didn’t have to worry about being a gentleman,” his older self says dryly, “but I didn’t mean you could just leave me hanging.”

He opens one eye. “’M way too blissed out for anythin’ more complicated than a handjob right now,” he says, and gets a laugh and a breathy groan in answer.

He forces open his other eye to watch his other self free his cock from his trousers and palm himself. He’s rock hard, his cock dripping a little precome, and John kinda wants to taste it.

“Handjob sounds… ahhh… fine,” his other self groans, rubbing his thumb over the head of his cock.

John shoves himself forward, almost landing in the older mans lap, and grabs haphazardly at his cock. It takes him a couple of tries to find an angle that doesn’t make his wrist feel like it’s about to drop off, and then he begins jacking it, hard and fast just the way he likes it.

“Tha’s it, like that,” his counterpart groans, and John grins and catches his mouth in a sloppy kiss.

It’s over fast, twelve firm strokes all it takes before the cock in his hand twitches, covering his arm in hot wet spunk. He wipes it on the carpet, and on one of Beano’s shirts which he found wadded up under the seat.

“Ohhhh, I needed that,” his other self groans, relaxing back against the side of the van opposite John.

“You get what you needed for the magic?” John asks curiously. He’s still not entirely convinced the guy wasn’t just talking bollocks about the magical ritual, but the other stuff he’s said has all turned out to be true, so he’s giving him the benefit of the doubt.

“Yup,” the man says, grinning. “Life energy acquired.”

“Life energy? As in, me jizz? Your magic spell needed me jizz?”

“Basically. Blood would have worked as well, or I could have just drained the energy directly from your soul, but this seemed like the more fun option. You enjoy it?”  
John shrugs, knowing he’s blushing again and hating it. “Not bad.”

“Not bad my fucking arse. I was the best you ever had, and you know it.”

“Sure, whatever you say old man.”

His other self laughs, and begins levering himself up. “Don’t knock it, our kid, this is your future you’re looking at. Sort of.”

He begins climbing over the boxes containing Beano’s kit, heading for the door.

“Wait,” John calls, suddenly aware that the moment is ending and he’s never going to get a chance like this again. “You sure you don’t have any advice for me?”

The other man pauses, a few inches from the door, considering. “Quit smoking,” he says at last. “And stay the fuck away from Newcastle.”

And then he’s gone, jumping down from the van, his coat and shirt in one hand, and disappearing into the darkness before John has a chance to scramble after him.

He leave his tie, and when John pulls his trousers back on, after doing a rough clean up with his boxers, he shoves it into his pocket. Maybe it’ll come in useful someday.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments are why I do this people, they make my life a better place x


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